The Toy
By Coventry Patmore

        My little son, who looked from thoughtful eyes,
           And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise,
           Having my law the seventh time disobeyed,
           I struck him, and dismissed
           With hard words and unkissed,
           His mother, who was patient, being dead.
           Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep,
           I visited his bed
           But found him slumbering deep,
           With darkened eyelids, and their eyelashes yet
           From his late sobbing wet.
           And I, with moan
           Kissing away his tears, left others of my own,
           For, on a table drawn beside his head,
           He had put, within his reach,
           A box of counters and a red veined stone,
           A piece of glass abraded by the beach.
           And six or seven shells,
           A bottle with bluebells
           And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art,
           To comfort his sad heart.
           So when that night I prayed,
           To God, I wept and said:
           "A when at last we lie in tranced breath,
           Not vexing Thee in Death,
           And Thou rememberest of what toys
           We made our joys,
           How weakly understood,
           Thy great commandment good,
           Then fatherly not less
           Than I whom has molded from the clay,
           Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say,
          "I will be sorry for their childishness."